Greatest Rap Ever?

From 6:39 onwards.

You not as cold as me, motherfucker stop pretendin’.
I’ll murder you in front of your crib like John Lennon.
I’ll rip the tendons outta your muscle to cut the tension.
I’m beyond your comprehension,
like related sub-atomic particles in fifth dimensions.
Suspension in your breathin’ is what I’m leavin’,
until a legion of demons whisper the meanin’ of life in your ear.
Right before they make your motherfuckin’ life disappear.
But just ‘cause you hear the multi-syllabic dramtical,
don’t compare me to rappers that are on sabbatical.
‘Cause I never did business in Little fuckin’ Italy,
I’ll play checkers on triple decker tour buses in Tripoli.
The way that you typically bicker with me inexplicably,
is a mystery that pisses me off ridiculously.
‘Cause I’m lyically beyond your level scientifically,
specifically spittin’ out the spit in me prolifically.
I’m the majority of America futuristically.
After I’ve died, fuck my music,
you’ll feel me spiritually.
Darker than Sicily rippin’ above the averages.
You hold no weight like bitches after miscarriages.
Your label produces no kids like gay marriages.
I’m disparaging every fake thug rapper in sight,
that’s why your faggot ass will never make it into the light.
I’ll crack your skull when I smash your face into the mic.
And now you know what I’m like.
I’ll Suge Knight the industry.
I’ll feel like the spirit of Nat Turner got into me.
You’re infinitely hopeless.
You sound like shit when you spit live,
like Jennifer Lopez.
I’ll massacre a rich rapper, and all his broke friends.
And go to club Gia, rockin’ some blood-soaked Tim’s.
Party-crashin’ animal, fuckin’ model bitches,
leavin’ their stick-figure anorexic pussy in stitches.
My verbal blitzes outshine your offence,
you watered-down nonsense. I’m two-hundred proof,
chokin’ a local youth in his home-made vocal booth.
You’re a fuckin’ incompetent killer like Rape Ruth.
And I’m Technique, I’m the rawest nigga ever produced.
I spit nastier than regurgitated period juice.
Burn your fuckin’ rhyme book, stay warm and put it to good use,
‘cause I’m about to drop like frozen airplane shit through your roof.
And I’m sick of fake hustlers telling’ lies to the youth.
You never rocked Dominicans,
And you couldn’t sling rocks if you was Palestinian.
You broke motherfuckers, you catch no burnt rubber.
You niggas cave and get a fuckin’ cab like Danny Glover.
You aint hardcore, I’ll smack the shit outta your mother.
You wanna be gutter? I’ll leave you laid out in the street.
Signed yours truly, the motherfuckin’ Immortal Technique.